by Nadia Lee
Thanks to Elizabeth’s quick thinking and discretion, the people at the dinner have no idea what happened to my wife. It doesn’t hurt that the hospital was built with the Sterling fortune or that my sister helped raise millions for the hospital’s pediatric hematology-oncology department. By the time I arrive at the nurses’ station, there’s an admin waiting to whisk me away to the private room where my wife’s been stashed.
“Take your time. Nobody knows she’s here,” the man says before leaving.
A doctor is examining her pupils, flashing a penlight into her eyes, when I arrive. She then checks Belle’s reflexes and asks her a raft of questions. Contrasted to the doctor’s ebony skin, Belle looks like a ghost. The harsh fluorescent lighting hides nothing. My wife’s left cheek has been scraped, the spot red and angry, and the back of her right hand is bloody with a couple of cuts. A hint of a bruise darkens her jaw, and I can tell from the way she’s sitting, slightly hunched, that there’s more damage underneath her clothes.
Goddamn it. My legs start to shake, and I place a palm against the wall for support. Now that I’m seeing her in person, I feel weak and lightheaded…except that won’t do at all. Somebody has to be strong here.
“What happened?” My voice is unsteady, but I can’t do a thing about it.
The doctor turns to me. “You are…?”
“Elliot Reed. I’m her husband.”
“Finally.” Her dark eyes are solemn behind a pair of rimless glasses, and her mouth is flat. The seriousness of her expression sends a frisson of alarm through my system. “I’m Dr. Lisle.”
“Is she all right?”
“I’m sitting right here,” Belle says hoarsely, barely audible.
I ignore her.
“Yes,” the doctor says. “Just some cuts and bruises. Nothing broken, no head injury or concussion. She was very lucky.”
Lucky. The word keeps circling in my head, and I let out a long breath. “Thank god.”
“You should definitely thank something. I heard it was a long flight of stairs.”
“I’m still here.”
Belle’s peeved tone, more than anything, else lets me know she’s going to be okay. The scrapes will mend and the bruises will fade.
“She needs to take it easy,” Dr. Lisle is saying. “I’m assuming you can manage that. And I’m prescribing a muscle relaxant just in case. Absolutely, positively, no drinking or driving after taking it.”
“I don’t want—”
“Anything else?” I ask. Neither Dr. Lisle nor I even glance Belle’s way.
“Your wife asked to be discharged tonight,” the doctor says. “She can go if that’s what she wants, so long as you can promise she’ll take it easy.”
I purse my lips. I understand why Belle wants to leave. I hate hospitals too, but she just took a tumble down what had to be twenty yards of stairs at the Sterlings’ mansion. Even if nothing’s broken or permanently damaged, I prefer that she stay at the hospital overnight.
Belle is watching my eyes. “Elliot, I can’t stay here. This place makes me…” She seems to grow paler and smaller.
I breathe out harshly. All right. “I’ll take her with me, doctor. And I promise to keep her in bed and resting.”
Belle sags in relief, and Dr. Lisle nods. “If you notice anything wrong…even something small, you need to bring her back. Immediately.”
“Got it.”
“Go do the paperwork or whatever to get me out of here,” Belle says. “I’ll get my things and meet you at the nurses’ station.” I hesitate, but she flicks her wrist a couple of times. “Please.”
If she’d said anything else, I would’ve stayed, but the imploring please gets to me. Despite myself, I do as she asks.
Once we’re in the limo and on the way to the hotel, she leans back with a long sigh, her eyes closed.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She doesn’t open her eyes. “I’m fine. Just a little bruised, no big deal.”
I study the lines on her face and the tightly pressed lips. A little bruised, sure. I pull her until she’s leaning against me, her back to my chest. She must be hurting worse than she lets on. I arrange her so she can rest her head against my shoulder, but she stiffens. I don’t let go, though. I need to hold her and know she’s okay…for my own sake.
“What happened?” I ask after a moment.
The muscles in her back and shoulders turn to stone. “Didn’t you get the answer you want from the doctor?”
“Don’t. I don’t want to fight. I just want to know how it happened.”
“What’s there to know?”
“Elizabeth said one of the wait staff found you at the bottom of the stairs.” I didn’t hear the rest of what she said over the panic roaring in my head.
“Then you know what happened.”
“Belle…”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m banged up, and I’m tired.”
Part of me wants to push until she tells me everything, but she feels so small and fragile in my arms. I notice a new bruise on the back of her neck, stark and ugly on the otherwise smooth skin. I’m afraid if I push too hard, she might shatter.
A hotel staff member opens the door with a warm greeting, and I climb out first and help my wife. Her hand is too cool to the touch. If her injuries shock the attendant, he doesn’t show it.
Our overnight bags are whisked away, and we’re immediately checked in. A sharp-looking woman in a black dress escorts us to our suite on the top level. She glances at my wife, but doesn’t comment. Belle stares at the floor the entire time, unblinking. But I can sense her mind working. I just wish I could figure out what what’s going on inside.
“If anything’s not to your liking, please don’t hesitate to let us know,” the woman says in a robotically calm voice as she opens the door to show us in.
The suite is sumptuously appointed with pale, thick carpet, a plushy sectional sofa and an armchair before a huge TV. In the corner is a modern writing desk with a graphite-gray ergonomic chair. I immediately notice several vases of fresh flowers, which perfume the air delicately. Recessed lights set dim keep the large space looking intimate and almost romantic. Through the open, arched doorway, I see the bedroom; there’s a huge California king with pristine white covers turned down invitingly. The light from the bedside tables casts a satiny sheen over everything.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Reed. Enjoy your stay.” The woman disappears.
My wife lets out a long sigh. Her legs wobble as she steps further into the opulent suite. Tired of watching her trying to be strong, I sweep her up. She lets out a small cry and immediately wraps her arms around my neck. I start carrying her toward the bedroom.
“Elliot…” She blinks up at me, eyebrows pinched together as though she’s made up her mind about something. “I think someone pushed me.”
Everything stills as I try to grasp what she’s trying to say. The notion that somebody might’ve meant to harm her never crossed my mind. “You mean…at the stairs?”
“You probably don’t believe me.” The words are barely audible. She bites her lower lip. “Sorry. Doesn’t matter.” She speaks more loudly this time. “It was an accident.”
At first I don’t understand. Then it hits me, a shock like I’ve been backhanded. She didn’t want to tell me the truth because she didn’t think I’d take her word for it. My whole body tightens in reflex, but I consciously relax, reminding myself of the tumble she took. I don’t want to cause her any pain. “It wasn’t an accident if somebody pushed you. You should’ve told me earlier.”
“Doesn’t matter. Won’t find who did it.” Her words come out almost garbled, and it’s hard to make out what she’s saying.
She’s right about one thing. We probably won’t find the person who did it, unless one of the serving staff or servants happened to see something. But that isn’t what stokes my anger. It’s the way she turns from me, even though she’s claspe
d in my arms, and the deep shame and disgust I feel for myself at the circumstances I find myself in, the shitty situation in which both of us are mired.
I lay my wife on the bed and strip off her dress, then suck in a sharp breath.
Her injuries are evident—the tender skin starting to bruise around her shoulders, back and hip. Her right knee is going to be at least a medium blue. My body throbs as though I’m the one who rolled down the stairs and had the injuries. If she’d fallen headfirst, she could’ve died. My hands unsteady, I pull the sheets over her before I lose control and demand that something be done about the fact that she’s suffering. She passes out almost immediately. I push her crimson hair away from her face with shaking fingers.
I stand and yank off my tie, my hands rough. I reach into the minibar and help myself to some whiskey, keeping an eye on Belle as she sleeps.
The alcohol dulls the sharp edge of my initial fury. I’m still pissed at the way she behaved, even though I recognize her reaction wasn’t entirely without justification. After all, since Paddington’s report I’ve done everything in my power to convince her how little she means to me.
I swirl the liquor around in my glass. I’ve been trying to convince myself Belle holds no significance in my life. Hearing the truth from her lips hasn’t been my primary concern. I’ve wanted to prove to myself that it didn’t mean anything that when Paddington dropped the bombshell, that my anger came from the fact that she lied and misled me, and that her professions of love were most likely a form of manipulation. I didn’t think once about my grandfather’s painting—the initial reason for our contract marriage.
And that was unacceptable. Unthinkable.
I didn’t want to be that vulnerable to someone.
But now…
I watch her broodingly. Her mumbled apology hurt because it was said in such a sad, resigned voice. I have to accept the truth. I was furious because I’d been thinking something more permanent—maybe even a forever—with my wife. There aren’t many women I find admirable…and out of those, Belle is the only one who makes my blood boil with desire.
She’s worked so hard to build something for herself and her sister. And her pride… I laugh softly. She’s so damn proud she basically told me to go fuck myself when I offered her three thousand bucks for a night of sex. You’d think that after two years of poverty, she would have jumped at a chance for such easy money.
And I’m not entirely sure if she would’ve said yes to my wedding offer—and the million dollars that came with it—if it hadn’t been for her sister. Nonny is her biggest weakness, and I exploit it shamelessly. But I don’t fight fair. I fight to win.
Except…is this a win?
My wife and I are both miserable. I keep telling myself I’m not, but who the hell am I kidding? My focus is shot, I snap at people and I have to force myself to stay away from her until night falls—acting like a fucking vampire—when I finally allow myself to touch her, telling myself I deserve that much, since my lust for her body is the reason I decided to marry her. Nonny’s picked up on the tension, and she’s acting out in subtle ways, mostly against Belle. That isn’t right, but teenagers aren’t often concerned with right or wrong.
I finish the whiskey, start to reach for another bottle…then stop. I have to get my head screwed on right. We can’t continue like this. Even the resentment I’ve felt over the possibility of my wife growing indifferent to me is based on my fear that I might drive her away.
Tomorrow I’ll take the first step to fixing what is broken between us. I’ll ask Belle to explain the circumstance with Grayson from her point of view…and listen to her—calmly—as she talks.
I have to give us this chance or just let her go before she twists me inside out.
Chapter Ten
Annabelle
When I open my eyes, I see an unfamiliar room. I blink, utterly disoriented for a moment. My body aches like I’ve been in a wrestling match with an ape, I’m naked except for a super tiny thong and I don’t know whose bed I’m in.
Panic rushes over me, and suddenly I’m cold to my core. Memories of the last time I found myself awake, not knowing what happened the night before, pour through my mind; it’s suddenly hard to breathe through the tightness in my lungs. As tremors rack me, I squeeze my eyes shut. What happened? What am I doing here?
Then sanity intrudes, piece by piece. The panic recedes as quickly as it came, and I relax my grip on the sheets. I’m not a vulnerable fifteen-year-old who doesn’t know better anymore. I’m in San Francisco with Elliot. We attended Elizabeth’s charity dinner. I felt awful during the dinner, and the smell of all the rich sauces and fat only worsened the nausea. Fresh air seemed vital, and I went to the balcony on the second level. Then on my way back, I fell down the stairs…
No, not fell. Was pushed down. I didn’t imagine that pair of hands shoving into my back. My only regret is that I didn’t see who it was because I was too busy tumbling down the steps.
I hiss out a breath. It was probably Annabelle Underhill. She made it clear she hates me. On the other hand, why would she threaten me in the bathroom if she was going to push me down the stairs anyway? It would’ve made more sense for her to at least be neutrally pleasant in the bathroom, then go for the sneak attack.
I start to turn to check the time, and groan as my shoulders and upper back burst into blossoms of pain. Holy shit, I feel worse today than yesterday. Not unexpected, though. It was always worse the day after a tough game of hockey.
My eyes shut, I breathe shallowly, willing the pain to go away. I should ask for some ibuprofen. That would proba—
“You’re up.”
Elliot. My hands twist in the sheet and I pull it up, ignoring the dull throbbing in my arms, as though such a flimsy barrier would stop the sharp awareness of him from prickling over my skin. I feel too naked and too exposed. I recognize my extreme level of vulnerability is coming from the fact that Elliot has never been engaged in our relationship at a deep emotional level. I was the only one silly enough to think there could be more between us.
Elliot comes in and takes an armchair by the window, a hand around his phone. He’s impeccably dressed in a white shirt with the two top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up and a pair of light beige slacks that molds to his lean, muscular legs. His dark, glossy hair is almost dry. There is a small nick by his tight mouth, which surprises me; I can’t remember him ever giving himself a shaving cut.
An unexpectedly strong urge to run my finger over the wound courses through me, and I stiffen. The period of tenderness is over. I finally see that now, and can accept it intellectually. I just need to get my heart to acquiesce and figure out what Elliot’s and my next move in this farce is going to be. His eyes probe as he takes me in, and the unblinking focus is flustering.
“Yeah,” I croak, then clear my throat. “Just woke up.”
“Want a painkiller?” he asks, unscrewing a small bottle of water.
“The muscle relaxant?”
He nods.
I shake my head. “No. It’s going to make me drowsy.” I don’t want anything that can make me lose control of my faculties. “Do you have anything else?”
He offers me three options from a plastic bag with a pharmacy logo. I accept two ibuprofen pills.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. Breakfast?” he asks, taking the bottle of water back.
“No thanks. I’m not hungry. But some coffee would be great, if you don’t mind.”
“Why don’t you shower while I call for room service?”
I nod and wait until he turns away to use the in-house phone. Then I hobble as quickly as possible across the bedroom. It’s silly—it’s not like he’s never seen me naked before—but I feel extra vulnerable today.
The bathroom is much bigger than I imagined, with gold-veined marble flooring and polished brass and glass partitions for the shower. A sunken tub with a Jacuzzi jets sits in one corner under frosted windows that let the natural sunlight in.
I strip my thong off and step into the shower. The water is instantly hot, and just perfect for relaxing achy joints and pain-knotted muscles.
I let steam build in the stall, then run my soapy hands over myself, rinse off and step out, grabbing a large and very fluffy white towel.
In my experience, the key to feeling better isn’t lying in bed all day moping, but going about one’s routine. Activity seems to lessen the pain and accelerate the healing process. Still, I’ve never taken a beating like the one from last night. The stairs at my parents’ home in Lincoln City were much shorter…and carpeted.
The reflection in the mirror shows bruises blooming like purple pansies over my shoulders, upper back, hip and right knee. They throb, but aren’t too terrible. The scrapes on my cheek are scabbed over, and my jaw is blue along one side. The cuts on the back of my hand are minor, nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things. I sigh. At least nothing’s broken.
I apply concealer with extra care to the injuries on my face. I don’t want people looking at them and wondering. Although the hotel staff didn’t show any outward reaction last night, it’s possible they—or someone else—might think Elliot is abusing me. And that would be unfair.
I place the concealer on the vanity and stare at nothing. I told Elliot that I was shoved down the stairs. Did he believe me? It’s hard to tell. I wasn’t thinking very clearly last night. He might’ve assumed I was imagining things. He certainly didn’t believe me when I told him I had a good reason for associating with Mr. Grayson, and I don’t see how the incident at Elizabeth’s event is any different. Of course he’ll want to believe that everything at his sister’s dinner was perfect. On the other hand, he might take my word for it, since I’m not generally a clumsy person and—
I exhale deeply, suddenly angry and disappointed. This whole line of thinking…it’s all moot. I don’t want him to believe me on a case-by-case basis. If his trust can’t be absolute, I don’t want it, just like I don’t want his love if it can’t be true and unwavering.
By the time I’m done with my makeup and have a robe on, knocks come from outside. “The food’s here,” Elliot says.
